


fox's favor

by ninemoons42



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Ever After: A Promptis Zine, Fox Spirit Prompto Argentum, Human Noctis Lucis Caelum, Japanese Mythology & Folklore, Kitsune, Korean Religion & Lore, Kumiho, M/M, Mutual Protectiveness, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Protectiveness, Supernatural Elements, Zine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-09
Updated: 2018-10-09
Packaged: 2019-07-28 15:19:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16244366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninemoons42/pseuds/ninemoons42
Summary: Bloodied and silent and unbowed, a scarred boy and a weary fox spirit make -- and remake -- their promises to each other, beneath a restless night.





	fox's favor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Akumeoi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akumeoi/gifts), [notavodkashot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notavodkashot/gifts), [ItsAlwaysBloodMagic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsAlwaysBloodMagic/gifts).



> This is the story that I wrote for _Ever After_ ([tumblr here](https://everafterzine.tumblr.com/)), the fairytale-themed Promptis zine! I knew I was going to write about shapeshifter Prompto from the moment I was accepted. And I did make one or two attempts at something very much like the Crane Wife, and then I got myself dropped headfirst back down the burrows and warrens of fox-spirits and -- then I knew what I was going to do. 
> 
> Prompto in this story draws on two traditions of fox-spirits: the dual nature (benevolence vs malevolence) of the Japanese _kitsune_ , and the humanistic struggle (enlightenment vs enslavement) of the Korean _kumiho_. The more tails a kitsune has, the more powerful and the older it is; and the kumiho are distinguished from other fox-spirits by their fox beads, which are their sources of power (and the reason why humans might interact with them at all). 
> 
> You might think of this piece as a reflection of [moonlight beloved](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16156826), if you're so inclined :)
> 
> (Huge thanks to the mods behind Ever After for letting me join such a distinguished group of creators! You made my first zine experience amazing!)

_Birds. Gods. Humans. Same difference._

Shrieking, cawing, and Noctis would scream back, if only he could speak -- if only he had voice enough for it.

He made himself move quickly, instead: stooping to the withered grass, jagged-edged stones beneath this one working street-light. The other lamp-posts that he could see, that were still stood in this district, were run-down and worse.

Stones that slashed his fingers open. But the pain was not important: the blood on his skin was. The dark wet glisten of it, visible even in the poor light.

He didn’t mind staining the rocks: only rose to his full height, and took aim at the nearest feather-shape.

Threw -- and the stone found its target. Intruding wings in indignant flight. The birds, the messengers of the gods: how he hated the birds and their voices. How he hated the gods that they represented. 

Years of listening to conversations because he couldn’t contribute to them, and the gods’ names were still no better than curses, and that meant this world could still survive.

That meant _he_ could still survive. 

One more glance over his shoulders -- no, two, breathless and tense, to make sure the birds were gone, before he crossed the expanse of night-shadowed grass. Cracking stone columns, still standing somehow, still resisting wind and rain and questing roots and overgrowing vines. Columns that used to be part of a temple. A temple that used to be the heart of this district. 

A district that had once been consecrated to those cursed gods.

If they were watching, he hoped they were as helpless and as tongue-tied as he was, shivering in the night sky that seemed to press in on him with all of its cold and distant stars, and the crescent-shape of the new moon, light-edge that held the shadowed disc of the old moon between its points. 

Blood, drying on Noctis’s fingers, drawn from the stones: and before it could become useless he reached for the crumbling stone, whispering as he wrote.

_This world is protected. The gods are not welcome here. The gods will never be welcome here again._

Small letters trailing off. He switched to the can of spray-paint in his pack. 

Shadows following his next steps: here was another street-light. Overhead its flickering fitful golden glow, fighting the wind and its changing directions.

He peered at the metal for some space that hadn’t yet been eaten by layers of faded painted words. Circles and symbols to bless the light from this fixture. Together with the words in the stone, the light would protect this district, and this world.

The same words spilling soundlessly from his lips, the ragged ready tension that felt like thorns ringing his throat: and would the humans who still worshiped the gods find him here? Humans of -- cursed hungry teeth and claws and ravening muttering chittering.

And he didn’t want to think about their teeth and claws in him. God-touched, god-mad, cutting him -- 

He shivered -- didn’t want to think about his scars -- couldn’t stop thinking about his scars. The lines around his throat and the lines on his back, that made him curse his pain that burned on snowbound nights -- 

“Fuck,” he said, and he was shocked to hear his own voice.

Then cursed again, silently: because as soon as he finished writing -- the lamp-post creaked and its glow flickered out, electric whistling moan in its wake. 

Rustling in the grass, rustling that was more than just the wind in its cruel howl -- he reached into his pocket for the knife that he wore next to his skin at all times. Sliversharp blade that he held backhanded, too tight, till his hand cramped.

Moving shapes on the edges of the grass -- he hissed at them, and they shrieked back -- they didn’t seem human to him at all, and didn’t seem non-human either -- he saw the symbols they were wearing, seven swords rammed through a deformed skull -- 

He wanted to scream at those shapes. He wanted to slash them into ribbons of dead flesh -- 

Flash of light! Flash of scarlet! Stink of rain and rust and copper, thick on his tongue! He retched onto the grass and kept fighting, on and on as those shapes advanced on him -- 

He would not be sacrificed. He would not be used. 

And he cursed the night, cursed and fought without a single sound falling from his lips -- 

How many times did he need to snarl and get back up?

How much of his own blood was he spilling onto the grass?

And then, out of the shadows: 

“Noctis!”

He slashed at another enemy. Bared his teeth at them.

He knew better than to respond.

But the movement that was coming closer resolved into -- a pale hand reaching for him, out of the close metal-stink -- braided golden cords wound around that thin wrist, and the silent pulse of blue light that glowed against his knife.

Blue light, familiar as the shape that appeared out of shadows and fell into a crouch before him, hissing and -- shifting. A hand, turning into claws, already dark at the tips -- 

Shape of tails and pricked-up ears, the shape of a fox-demon, and the glow of its soul bead that came and went like the clouds flowing past the moon. 

“It’s me,” that familiar shape said, with a brief backwards glance -- those eyes full of dark gold.

And he had to speak, and he forced the name past the ache in his throat: “Prompto.”

Who flashed a grin at him, wicked faint light off the gleaming points of cruel teeth, and -- lunged for the rest of the hovering angry screaming shapes of their enemies -- 

Noctis wanted to scream and couldn’t, and he threw himself forward instead.

He was the knife, slashing and stabbing; and Prompto was claws and a silent snarl, and the darkness reeked, now, and above them the street-light flickered back on, its pale glow exposing the shapes of -- things that used to be alive.

Like music, like lethal rhythm, he fought in circles and he watched Prompto’s back -- Prompto who laughed soft and sweet and mad, as one by one their enemies fell away and there were no more shapes coming out of the shadows to renew the attack -- 

And Noctis was left in the fitful sputter of golden light from the lamp-post, and the hum and the crackle of the blessing-sign -- last man standing, as Prompto landed from one more graceful leap.

The crouched shape of him, outlined in the blue light of his soul bead where it flared in his wrist. So much blood painted across his pale skin. His ears, laid flat against the top of his head.

Noctis looked at his own red hands, and forced a word out:

“Wait.”

“Yeah,” was the equally rasped response.

He turned to the stone at his back and it crumbled under his hands, and he wrote those familiar words again, cursed the gods again.

And when it was all done he pitched forward onto his knees and -- Prompto was there. Holding him. The brush of tail-fur against Noctis’s skin, warming him, pushing away the sickly stick of mixed sweat and blood and whatever else had come out of their enemies as they’d died on a knife, on claws.

Tails. Four tails. 

_How?_ he wanted to ask. He touched the lines etched deep into Prompto’s cheeks instead. The cold tip of his nose. Skin, turning into fur and soft smooth hide.

And Prompto caught at him with paws. Soft sheaths over sharp claws, brushing over his mouth, his forehead, his hair.

Noctis clung to him, to the braids decorating Prompto’s wrist, and the blue light that continued to pulse. 

“Safe,” he heard Prompto say, and he smiled back. “Safe now.”

“You,” he answered. “And me.”

“Yeah.”

Prompto’s hide, Prompto’s fur, and Noctis felt out the warmth of him, the plain and real shape of him. Whistle of air past sharp teeth. The corners of Prompto’s eyes, with their wide golden rings blotting out blue-purple irises. That mouth in its cruel sweet curve -- and Prompto’s tongue lolled out, licking at him. 

“Tails?” He was breathless. The word hurt.

Those four curves rising over Prompto’s shoulder, graceful sleek fur -- Noctis wanted to touch, but there were so many questions crowding on his tongue --

That he couldn’t ask, choking for every breath.

“You’re tired.” 

He gaped at Prompto, knew he looked like a fool. 

“Here,” Prompto was saying: his paw, wrapped in blue glow, tracing lines. 

Noctis felt him, claws and all, making the circuit of him. The corners of his eyes, the corners of his mouth, the hollow of his throat, the center of his chest -- back up to his forehead -- 

The cool sweet light bleeding into his veins from each touch -- and, after, he drew a deep clean breath. 

Now he was strong enough to sit up in Prompto’s lap. Strong enough to cling to him.

Those arms holding him, surrounding him in the smell of cool wind. Prompto made him think of -- mountains and snow, and long winter, snow and fallen fur, and spilled blood.

“What happened to you?” And those four words were four too many, but -- that was the question, after all. Question enough for the tails. For the power that he could feel, thrumming in Prompto.

Power that was more than the blue light and the gold eyes and the warmth wrapped around his heart.

Huff of breath, sweet despite the metallic stink of blood, and Prompto was nuzzling at the corner of his mouth, pulling him into a kiss. 

And after, Prompto said nothing: only grinned, the corners of his mouth going lopsided.

Noctis wanted to hiss at him, and he laid his ear against Prompto’s chest and listened, instead.

The moon was withdrawing into the shrouded east sky when Prompto sat up, and took Noctis’s hand, and closed it around his wrist. “Feel.”

Noctis nodded, as the blue light grew brighter beneath his fingertips. Light that had only glowed more brightly, the longer he’d known Prompto -- light that had woken him up from fitful sleep, from the long nights of huddled warmth and terrible dreams barely held at bay. 

The soul bead’s blue light, warm in Prompto’s strange eyes. “I got it back. I got all of it back.”

 _How?_ he wanted to ask. What had Prompto _done_?

But all Prompto said was, “Now I’m free.”

Noctis bit his lip and nodded, and wanted to curse himself because now he wanted to cry, now those words would mean -- something else, something more painful than the fact that he couldn’t speak --

So he reached up, and cupped Prompto’s face in his hands. Pulled him closer, to breathe him in, to kiss the soft fur at the tip of one erect fox-ear. “Going home,” he rasped, sort of a question, sort of a fear.

That was torn down the middle by the unexpected response: “Home. Yeah. With you.”

He had neither voice nor words -- and they were taken from him anyway, when Prompto kissed him, very gently, brush of whiskers against Noctis’s mouth. “Yeah. Home, here, where you are. Birds and gods and humans -- I don’t care about them, you don’t care about them. Do you?”

He blinked. Forced the word out through the ruin of his throat. “No.”

“No. So, Noctis. I’ll be here with you, if you’ll be here with me. If that’s what you want.”

“Yes,” Noctis whispered, choking on his tears. And: “Truly?”

“Truly. I want to stay. I want to be with you.”

“Prompto,” Noctis said, and kissed his fox-shaped lover and the warmth of him, the power of him.

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on Tumblr at my FFXV sideblog [@ninemoons42-lestallumhaven](http://ninemoons42-lestallumhaven.tumblr.com/) or at my main [@ninemoons42](http://ninemoons42.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
